


Life After

by StrictlyNoFrills



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Tag to s1 ep3, character exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24647185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrictlyNoFrills/pseuds/StrictlyNoFrills
Summary: He told Milady he wasn’t about to shoot his best friend. So, how does a farm boy from Gascony go from threatening to kill a man on his knees to considering him his dearest friend?
Relationships: d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère, d'Artagnan & Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Life After

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys!
> 
> This was not the fandom I figured I would be posting for once I finally crawled back out of the rl hole I fell into a few months ago, but I’ve been rewatching The Musketeers, and that line d’Artagnan says to Anne has been occupying a lot of space in my head, which finally feels clear enough for writing again, so here we are. It’s a bit stream-of-consciousness, but I think that’s to be expected after taking a hiatus for a few months.

It is truly alarming how much Athos can drink. For the first few hours after they spring their little trap for Bonaire, Athos sits at the table with his usual proud, erect bearing, and puts away a quick succession of flagons.

Eventually, that perfect poise gives way to a despondent slump, but the drinking continues. 

When Athos’s eyes are limned in redand his cheeks full of unnatural brightness beneath his beard, d’Artagnan reaches out and places a gentle hand upon the older man’s slightly trembling wrist.

The bluest eyes fly up and pierce d’Artagnan more effectively than the sharpest sword, but in the ensuing stillness, the flare of anger in those eyes subsides, suborned by gloomy acceptance.

“Come on, Athos. I’ll get you home.”

“Yes, fine.” The words come out with exceptional care, fighting against the slurring which threatens to overcome Athos’s speech.

Clumsily, Athos pulls away and takes out his coin pouch, placing more than enough compensation on the table. As he does so, d’Artagnan stands and steps around to the other side of the table. He waits until Athos drags his face up to peer back at him and offer tacit consent to the hand d’Artagnan holds out. Then d’Artagnan helps his friend rise, wrapping one of Athos’s arms around his shoulders.

Athos is no slight weight against d’Artagnan’s lithe frame, his shoulders broad and packed with powerful muscle which has gone lax with drink, but d’Artagnan is no stranger to heavy lifting, and the fierce friendship he feels for the man at his side renders him no burden at all. Together, they wind their way through the densely packed pub and out to the busy streets of Paris, Athos leaning against him with unquestioning faith.

Something tender burns in his chest at Athos’s easy trust in him, much like the overwhelming love he used to feel when he came upon his father slumped over the farm’s books, quill fallen from his hand and reading spectacles digging into the lines of his weather-beaten face.

D’Artagnan used to pry the spectacles loose and lean his father back into the comforting bulk of his office chair, ease the latest ledger out of his lap and replace it with thick, woolen blankets to keep out the night chill.

Tonight, he opens the door to the room he has visited only rarely since he arrived in Paris, and lowers his charge onto the bed with the same delicate care.

He kneels and removes Athos’s boots, takes off his hat, murmuring, “Goodnight,” even though his friend’s breathing has already become deep and even with sleep.

He sets the boots by the door and the hat on the bed stand, along with a fresh cup of water, and then he stares down at Athos for a moment, simply studying him.

As he had half-carried, half-dragged Athos from his torched family home, he’d remembered the strident order to his own firing squad to shoot, and Aramis’s ironic chiding of Athos’s eagerness to die, and d’Artagnan had thought _Ah. So that’s why._ He’d thought of Porthos relaying what little of Athos’s past the renegade Comte had been willing to part with and saw all the holes in the story filling up with Her. With his mysterious wife. D’Artagnan resolved then that Athos’s grief over _that woman_ could no longer have him.

He’d saved Athos’s life that night, and he thought, with only a slight leaden feeling of loss in his belly, as opposed to the all-encompassing bereavement he would have felt in those initial days and weeks after his death, of the times when his father would both caution and praise him at once. “Always remember, Charles, that once you have saved a life, you become responsible for it.”

His father’s wisdom had been for the birds with broken wings and the fox kits without mothers that little d’Artagnan could never conscion allowing to suffer, rather than for world-weary King’s Musketeers, but the d’Artagnan of today sees no reason why the distinction should matter.

When Athos had sat astride his horse and passed out in the safety of his arms that night, d’Artagnan had promised, “I’m going to take care of you,” just as he would the birds and kits, and that was the beginning and end of it.

He hopes briefly that he will be up to the task he set for himself. Then he sets such thoughts aside. D’Artagnan is not much for doubting himself. If he sees something he wants or that needs doing, he simply rolls up his sleeves and goes after it. None of this wishing and hoping business.

At the moment, what needs doing is helping Athos find a way forward in a world where his understanding of the past five years has been a lie, and so help him d’Artagnan will. Perhaps Athos will not thank him for what he might see as interference, but d’Artagnan does not believe that will be the case. Not after the way Athos confided the truth on that night filled with fire and ash and pain. He had spoken to d’Artagnan as an equal, none of the skepticism of their early days anywhere on his face or in the tone of his voice, nor even the zealous overprotection from when d’Artagnan volunteered to spy on Vadim.

He remembers the flat disapproval with which Athos initially oversaw d’Artagnan’s fencing; he’d spent the first month after Captain Treville assigned him to Athos, Porthos, and Aramis’s tender mercies for training believing that Athos thought d’Artagnan an utter idiot with a sword, or just an idiot in general, even though he had more than proven himself against the Cardinal’s Red Guards. 

It was Porthos who disabused him of the notion, over a few cups of wine and a game of cards with a table full of soldiers after yet another long, exhausting day of eating dirt and staring up at the sky after Athos trounced him again and again.

“You’re here, aren’t you? Why do you think that is? Captain wouldn’t have agreed to let you train with us if Athos hadn’t accepted it. Insisted on it’s more like.”

It had been a revelation and a puzzle in one. Porthos had taken one look at the many questions that must have been written all over d’Artagnan’s face and clapped him on the back with a warm, throaty laugh, deep and growly, like a bear, but only the kindest, gentlest of bears.

“Athos sees something in you, hey? Come to think of it, so do the rest of us. Best not to question a good thing too much, alright? Life’s too short, and there’s few enough of them to go around for us to try and poke holes in ‘em all to see what they’re made of. It’s enough that they  _are_.”

Five minutes later, Porthos got caught cheating and dragged d’Artagnan into a brawl with four Red Guards.  _How_ _is_ _it_ , he’d wondered, as he’d ducked a fist and sent a chair flying into another man’s chest,  _that_ _I’ve_ _become_ _friends_ _with_ _one_ _of_ _the_ _wisest_ _and_ _yet_ _most_ _foolish_ _men_ _in_ _all_ _of_ _France_?

And now, he thinks he is also friends with the man who is at once one of the richest and the most desolate.

“What am I to do now?” Athos had wondered. Well, d’Artagnan has the answer. Athos is going to live. D’Artagnan will see to it.

He nods once, eyes Athos’s sleeping form one more time in case there is anything he has missed, and then he slips out of Athos’s room, heading back to his own bed for the night, forming plans as he goes.

That night, he falls asleep with his head full of thoughts for the future and the sense that he has finally found the purpose which has been missing from his life since his father bled out in his arms.


End file.
